Appearance
by Forelle
Summary: John's made his last pen stroke, he's made his last call, now all he has to do is make his final decision: does he dare open the door?  Post-Reichenbach, there are cuss-words if you do not like those kinds of things.


John looked out of the window to his right with bleak eyes.

Three years. That's how long it'd been, but damn. _Damn_, if didn't still hurt like a motherfucker when he thought about him for too long. His right hand began rubbing his left wrist in an unconscious manner. Too long. He'd been gone too long. And Mycroft.

Mycroft.

Damn the bastard. He hadn't helped one ounce. Oh, he might have taken a cursory peek around the country. Maybe he even glanced around at the world for any sign of his brother, but had he delved any deeper? Had he been searching for any sign of the man for two whole years before he'd been told to take a break? Had he woken up at nights completely forgetting those events and then gone off to look for him in his apartment?

John had not trouble doubted it.

The John who now sat in a little inn somewhere in the back-country of England stared out of the window into the dreary fog of the morning and sat there rubbing his wrists.

After Lestrade and Harry had found him in Germany about a year ago, he'd been watched like a hawk. For a long time he was never alone and Lestrade had given him a long lecture about how he was in no condition to take care of himself. For three months he didn't give a damn about those two and their wishes, he just wanted to go out there and search until he ran himself into the ground. Maybe then he'd feel better. But then Harry had had enough and had cried. _Harry_. His _sister_. She had _cried_ because he wasn't snapping out of this this whatever it was and it was scaring her.

Eventually she'd put enough guilt on him for him to try and snap out of it. At least a little bit. Enough for her to stop worrying.

Now the two mother hens continued to check up on him, but not quite so much and whenever they did they were not quite so . . . quiet about things. In fact, they'd begun trusting him enough not to race out of the country. So much so, that he could now make a few visits outside of London without them running after him.

He felt some accomplishment at this fact, but the cluster of pride died as he looked back down at the table in front of him.

Before him lay sheets upon sheets of paper with so many scratch-outs and rewrites above words that it looked like nothing more than a jumbled mess with a few tear drops smearing a good bit of the latter half of the stacks.

It was all there of course. His last case with . . . with – with him. Written out by hand because he thought this one was far too personal for the prying eyes of the public. Far far too personal. Ink streaks covered his hand from where he'd haphazardly twirled the pen when he wasn't working on the case. He stared at his hands in desperation. He wanted them to do something, but these hands, they had failed too many times for him not to wonder if perhaps he was incurable of depression. They were dry hands with a slight shake to them. His symptoms had come back ten-fold after the . . . incident. He couldn't walk anywhere without the assistance of his cane and that had sent him even further into his downward spiral.

John let a sigh fall from his lips and leaned back into the back of the wooden chair.

Things were taking too long. Life, really, took too long. There were so many points of monotony and –

John chuckled at his thoughts. He almost sounded like him when he was bored. A sharp pain crashed through his chest at the thought and John squished his eyelids together to try and shut off his mind.

Shut off his mind.

Yes, that's what he'd been meaning to do.

John reached a now steady hand across the wooden table and grasped the cold metal of his Browning and brought it towards him.

He hadn't _really_ thought about suicide before. Not really. Sure, he'd been in a dark place before he'd met – you know. And perhaps he'd have gotten to that point if he'd been given enough time to wallow in his self-pity, but now? Now, it was an almost constant thought in his head. He'd never told Lestrade or Harry about these thoughts. They would have sent him to a shrink and he knew how well that had worked out before.

Now, the thought of a cold bullet brought a sense of release. Release from too many troubles. Release from a world without Sh-

_Knock, knock_

John brought the gun down from his head and looked over his shoulder to the door. He'd asked the clerk at the front desk to let him not be disturbed, right? So, who was this supposed to be?

"Who is it?" There was no reply and now John's guard was up. He may be skinny now, but he could still take someone down with a gun. Damn, he thought once he reached the door. There was no peephole. "I know you're out there, now who is it?"

The only response was some more knocking at the door. Unhurried and maybe even a bit hesitant. But there was no verbal response. John checked the gun at his side and reached over to unlock the door. The person on the other side did not immediately slam the door open, so John thought that might be a good sign, but he didn't let that cloud his judgment.

With the gun behind his back, John opened the door a smidge and looked into pale blue eyes.

"John."

He was frozen. His body, his mind, everything was just – it just stopped. Had he already shot himself? Was he having a hallucination? Who was this impersonator before him? Why did he look so thin?

"You've got stubble." John blinked at hearing his own voice. Of all the things he could have said, he had to say that?

"Very astute observation John. May I come in?" John blinked again. Sherlock didn't ask. No. Sherlock took. Sherlock did whatever he wanted without asking for permission.

"Who are you?"

"Honestly John, it's only been three years. I was certain you would have recognized me even with-" The door was yanked open and Sherlock was pulled into the room and then roughly thrust up against one of the walls in John's room.

"Three years. You arse," John whispered. Sherlock had to admit that hearing John's voice, even in anger, was calming. "You complete arse, what did you think you were doing? Running off after Moriarty? Did you even _THINK_ of yourself? Even for a moment? God _damn_ it Sherlock! Did you even think about what you were doing to _ME_?"

"Why would my running after Moriarty have anything to do with you, John?" He spoke in a quiet manner, his eyes looking just the slightest bit unfocused.

"Because we're _PARTNERS_, Sherlock. That's what partners _DO_! They think about one another and how their actions will affect them _BOTH_!"

"You're still willing to put up with me?" Sherlock's eyes focused on John's face for an intense moment and John felt his breath catch in his throat and his strength drain. He was back. That's all that mattered. He was back.

John let his hands fall from Sherlock's coat and let them hang at his sides as a bone-deep tired settled over him.

"Of course you git. I've always put up with you before, why not now?"

"Because you were going to kill yourself."

"Guess the gun gave that away."

". . . yes. Well . . . How have you been John?"

"Heh. Heh heh. Aha ha ha!" John laughed aloud for the first time since, well, probably since Sherlock's "death" three years ago. He soon found himself on the ground with tears streaming down his face and those laughs becoming sobs that racked his chest and sent him into the fetal position. He lay there for all of thirty seconds before he felt a pair of arms wrap around him and tug him into a long, lean chest which made him cry all the more. He unfurled himself and grasped ahold of Sherlock and pulled him close enough to breathe him in.

He felt hands glide over his back and shoulders. His hair. His face, where the hands could reach. But his hands remained clasped behind the other man's back in an unyielding grasp. He would not let up on Sherlock until he was absolutely certain that Sherlock was here. That the world's only consulting detective was truly back with him.

"Sh-sherlock. Sherlock, I –"

"John, remain silent until you can say my name without stuttering. I'll still be here." John felt Sherlock's hands still on his arms and grasp a little tighter. John mumbled acquiescence and nodded into Sherlock's chest before he closed his eyes and let himself fall into sleep's grasp where he felt at peace for the first time in three long years.

All right, here it is.

Just wondering, should I continue this or should I leave it here?

Please review, they're astoundingly motivational. Also, this was written to Starlight – Muse, if anyone wants to know. And if anyone wants to tell me that they're out of character even in the slightest, I don't really care because, well, I'm not Mr. Cumberbatch of Mr. Freeman, so I don't know how they would play these characters in this certain circumstance. Have a cheery day.


End file.
